#archivefall2021

[dukearchive]

cover art by Adair Jones THE ARCHIVE FALL 2021 EDITION Poetry:

January Comes by Jocelyn Chin

Breath by Jocelyn Chin

On the abolition of crushes. by Charlotte Haidar

I miss the Geese next to Riverside Park by Charlotte Haidar

not a eulogy, just an apology by Oscar Nolen

Fluorescent Sunset by Oscar Nolen

Food Lion Fantasy by Oscar Nolen

Red by Sophie Zhu

Prose:

The Marionettist by Helen Liu

Save Now? by Helen Liu

Masthead 2021-2022: Editors in Chief: Pranav Athimuthu and Donald Pepka Associate Editors: Spencer Chang, Ashley Chen, Marina Chen, Manon Fuchs, Katherine Horn, Catherine Johnson, Tyler King, Hannah Kubik, Lilia Qian, Joy Tong, Lauren Tse Design Editors: Manon Fuchs, Tyler King, Lilia Qian, Lauren Tse Submissions: email original and unpublished work of any medium (writing, art, photography, and more) to the archive. submissions will be considered for both our online edition and fall 2022 physical edition. music & film will only be published online. multiple submissions welcome and encouraged. contact us or submit pieces at dukearchive@gmail.com.

[dukearchive]

Breath

By Jocelyn Chin

Art: Portrait of a Man in Red Chalk, Leonardo da Vinci, c. 1512.

The clay cracks. Life’s dusty veil sifts over

yellowed paper – like sand spilled from

a splintered hourglass upon which we sow

speckled red skin, sunken eyes,

a white mane skimming grainy brows.

Static.

From the downturned mouth of God, I hear – to dust you shall return.

[dukearchive]

I miss the Geese next to Riverside Park

By Charlotte Haidar I am Running next to the funeral pyre that is the Hudson which smells sulfurous like rotten eggs, with prescription toothpaste in my pocket. I tried to kiss the leaves of the weeping willow but I am too short and probably too small to assuage its weeping anyways. I think about how dreadfully lonely this city is and how full of love I feel here. I think it is because I hold my despair and hope in equal measure. I whisper I love you and nothing whispers back to me. I see mustachioed men on bicycles and watch a man fall asleep on a bench, boots out from under the blanket. The geese are gone. I know they only hiss at me because they love their babies who have probably flown off somewhere or died. I love you all in my own hissing hysterical  way.

[dukearchive]

On the abolition of crushes.

By Charlotte Haidar I’m Dostoevskying in my bed which is a kind of luxury for the aching. I’m listening to the song I listened to when I longed for you, really. It’s on an album called Capacity and I’m wondering what it means to be capacious. to be big enough to hold something. i think i thought i wanted to hold you but maybe what i wanted was an idea I thought I wanted to be small for you but now I think maybe I just want to be compact enough to wrap my arms around my own body which is grand and large and hollow.

[dukearchive]

Red

By Sophie Zhu In the grand invention of color, red is third. Fathers teach daughters to see it, in blood and meat and stop signs. Red is Rosso Corsa, Italy’s racing flag that goes throttle streak in Alfa Romeo/Lancia/Ferrari (now there’s a household name). Slowly, red is re-dyed hair of a fine and lanky figure with long fingers and good eyes, suckling on rambutan husks and mulberry-stained, youthful little things. Nails draw lines across nails and come back cherry P S Y C H E D E L I C. Neat, right? I’ll tell you a personal story about red if I can figure out how to say it. For now, chew on this piece of pomegranate and the sweet bulbs spilling over the top.

[dukearchive]

Save Now?

By Helen Liu

The whispers are deafening.

White-knuckled, his hands clutch the edges of his lunch tray. Blood pounds in his ears; his cheeks flush red. Before him is a mess of milk and chicken and mushy baked beans, all over the floor, dripping down his front, slowly soaking into his frilled white shirt and shiny leather shoes.

He can feel the eyes of the entire cafeteria burning into his back. He swears he can hear his name rippling through the tables. Terrible, damning, stealing his breath and pinning him to the ground - faced with the condemnation of hundreds, how can he ever be more than a bug?

He is not offered a single tissue despite the many boxes scattered over the tables. The boy who had tripped him does not help either. Likely it was accidental - perhaps it was not. But even the slightest hint of anger is stifled completely by utter humiliation, hot and heavy. Truthfully, he barely even feels the wetness seeping into his skin.

And so Ares Langston, youngest child of the revered Langston family, stands frozen at the center of the cafeteria.

You’re a disgrace to your name, a voice sneers. He can’t tell where the voice is coming from; he doesn’t dare to lift his eyes and see who had spoken. What would your parents say if they saw you like this?

It seems an eternity before people begin to turn away, returning to their lunches and conversations. Still, nobody comes to help - nobody wants to be associated with a failure of a Langston son. Slowly, robotically, he wipes up the mess himself. Slowly, robotically, he leaves the cafeteria. And the second he rounds the corner, he breaks into a run, breaths shallow and erratic, tears welling in his eyes.

Blindly, he finds an empty classroom. Slamming the door shut, he slides down against the wall, trying to muffle the sobs tearing from his throat with hands still sticky from his lunch. Snot builds in his nose; he tastes salt on his lips. How miserable must he look right now - how disgusting.

To watch where he was going - was it that hard? Must he have chosen the busiest time of lunch to trip? And why did he just stand there for so long? He could have done something, anything, to ease the situation. Is that not what he’s been taught to do his entire life?

To his older siblings, it is second nature. If his brother had tripped, he would have easily laughed it off. If his sister had tripped, the entire cafeteria would have rushed to help her. They liked having eyes on them, relishing the attention, bending the crowds to their will.

So why, then, does he feel so helpless in front of others? Why do the gazes of his peers pierce through his very being? He has always felt foreign to them, these people he has grown up with but never really known. He has never had someone to turn to, has always been afraid of trust. And so he is a stranger in his own school, timid and skittish, craving attention but running away when others try to give it.

A meek little thing like him named after the god of war - it must be some sort of twisted joke.

His sobs warp into bitter, hysterical laughs. More than anything else, he wishes he had some kind of undo button. Something to erase all his mistakes, to wipe away his past, to give him a clean slate. Maybe he could do better, if only he had another chance. He digs his fingers into his cheeks and curls into himself, trying futilely to steady his breathing. The crushing, suffocating weight of a hundred pairs of eyes on him - will he ever be able to withstand it?

I can help you.

Ares jerks his head up and scrabbles to his feet, wiping frantically at his tears. He has made enough of a fool out of himself - others cannot see him like this. But he sees nobody in the room, nobody in the hallway. “Hello?” he whispers, but nobody responds.

Did he imagine it? With a sharp exhale, he sits back down. Now he’s hearing things on top of everything; isn’t he pathetic enough?

Your self-hatred is irritating.

He squeezes his eyes shut, clamps his hands over his ears. He must be going insane.

Open your eyes and look at me, won’t you?

Slowly, he slides open an eye.

It’s himself standing in front of him. Hair styled perfectly, posture impeccable, it wears that floral-patterned suit tossed in the back of his closet, one of many outfits he’s never been able to look good in. Yes, that’s his own face staring down at him, derision darkening its gaze and contempt twisting its lips. Confident, poised, and haughty, everything he is not.

Despite the fear rising within him, he cannot help but feel a flicker of envy.

An undo button, you said? Other-Ares steps towards him, tilting his chin up with a finger. God knows you need it.

“What are you?” Ares stammers, retreating only to find his back against the wall. “Are - are you me?”

What does it look like? Other-Ares adjusts its cuffs and settles delicately in a chair. Of course not.

Ares flinches and looks away.

But aren’t I everything you want to be? Your family would be proud if you were like this.

He shudders, hugging himself tighter.

Other-Ares scoffs and leans towards him. I said I could help you. Do you want it or not?

He wants it more than anything. But still, some part of him is hesitant - what if it’s some sort of trick? “Prove to me you’re not just a figment of my imagination,” he says, hoping he sounds stronger than he feels.

If you say yes, I’ll be able to prove it right away.

Nothing comes without a cost, his parents tell him. “What’s the price?”

Other-Ares bursts into full-body laughter, its shoulders shaking up and down as it doubles over. The price? It wipes at its eyes, gets itself back together. How do I say this - you don’t have to give me anything for me to help you.

“So it’s free?”

No. A dangerous smirk curves its mouth. Nothing’s ever free.

It’s just trying to scare him, Ares thinks. Chances are he’s just hallucinating, so why not indulge while he can? The scene at the cafeteria flashes back into his mind; he shivers, desperately trying to push the memory away. “Yes,” he blurts out. “Help me.”

Other-Ares smiles and stands, bending down to stare him in the eye. Close your eyes. It covers his face with an ice-cold hand and plunges him into darkness. Welcome to your new life.

The hand disappears. With a gasp, Ares jolts awake, blinking up at the front of the classroom. The students around him are already packing their bags; the teacher is finishing up his lesson on the board. That’s right - he’d fallen asleep in the class before lunch. It must’ve been some sort of strange dream.

There’s no sign of Other-Ares; his shirt is completely clean. With a sigh, he slides his books into his bag and stands. Head down, eyes trained on the floor a few feet in front of him, he makes his way to the cafeteria. Funny - the lunch today is chicken and beans. Habitually, he grabs a carton of milk, then makes his way to his usual table in the corner. What a coincidence it’d be if he were to trip right now.

A couple feet away, a boy sitting with his back to him suddenly stretches, extending his leg into the center aisle.

Ares freezes, breath catching in his throat.

The boy draws his leg back under his table. The students behind him mutter and move around him. For once, he barely notices. Instead, he stares at the spot a few feet in front of him, at the center of the cafeteria, where he once stood covered in his lunch. “What is this?” he whispers, barely audible.

A phantom weight on his shoulder. He jerks his head to the right to see Other-Ares, its arm around his back. Didn’t trip this time, did you? It nods towards the back corner. Go on, sit down. What are you just standing here for?

Stiffly, Ares walks over to his table, setting down his tray. “It wasn’t a dream?”

Of course not.

“I saw the future?”

I sent you back in time.

Ares takes a deep breath, forcing his hands to still in his lap.

Still don’t believe me? I can send you back again if you want. Other-Ares moves to cover his eyes, but he hurriedly pushes its hand away. “I believe you. I believe you.”

Well, I’ll be here whenever you need me. When he looks again, Other-Ares is gone.

He spends the rest of the day in a daze, oblivious to the world around him. Every five minutes he fumbles with his shirt to check if it’s still clean; every few moments he pinches himself to make sure he’s not dreaming. Every time he closes his eyes he expects to wake in his bed - wrapped in blankets and blinking at the chandelier hanging above, his nanny knocking on the door and calling for him to get up, the sound echoing through the empty manor.

Yet the day carries on as usual. He sits quietly in his classes; he walks with his head down in the halls. And when he gets home, tossing his backpack into his room and collapsing onto his couch, he finds Other-Ares waiting for him, sitting primly at the edge of his bed.

Did you enjoy your day?

“Why are you doing this?”

It tilts its head. Why not? It’s entertaining.

“This power - will I have it forever?”

You have no power.

“You know what I mean,” Ares snaps, surprising even himself. “Sorry - how long will you stay around?”

Other-Ares blinks, then grins widely. As long as I’m entertained. And as long as I can help you. I’m you, remember?

Ares takes a deep breath. “How far can you send me back?”

Just to the last time you woke up. Other-Ares points to his computer. Like a save point in a video game. Nothing before that.

A knock on the door. Panicked, Ares motions for Other-Ares to hide; it ignores him and leans back against the bed. A moment later, his nanny enters with a plate of fruit in her hands.

“Good afternoon, young master,” she greets him, setting down his snack. Ares sighs in relief - she doesn’t seem to be able to see Other-Ares. “I thought I heard you talking to someone. A friend?”

Ares flinches; Other-Ares snickers. “Just someone online,” he lies, trying to keep his eyes away from the bed.

“I’ll stop interrupting, then,” the nanny says, moving back towards the door. “Young master, I’m glad you’re getting to know more people. I may be saying too much, but being so isolated all the time can’t be good for you.”

“Thank you,” he says through gritted teeth. Other-Ares nudges his shoulder. Lonely, are you?

His nanny closes the door. With a long exhale, Ares digs the palms of his hands into his face. “Could you please just leave me alone,” he pleads. “I look like a freak talking to you. I don’t know how to deal with this - I’ll call you when I need you, is that alright?”

Other-Ares laughs, a harsh, grating sound. Ungrateful child. It’s no wonder nobody hangs around you. And yet he pushes off the bed and disappears, leaving Ares wondering if the past day has just been a delusion in his head.

The next day he wakes in a cold sweat. “Are you there?” he asks tentatively, unsure which answer he is hoping for.

Of course. Its voice is dry and sarcastic. Young master, do you need me?

Ares leans back against his pillows, trying to make sense of the possibilities swirling in his head. “No,” he breathes. “No, not yet.”

That day in history class, he is called on for a question he doesn’t have the answer to. “Didn’t you do the reading?” his teacher asks, clicking his tongue. “This is fairly simple.”

Face burning, he looks down at his feet. “Sorry.”

Waving him away, the teacher continues with his lecture, tapping his hand on the whiteboard. He knows that his classmates could care less, that at least half of them are half-asleep. And yet he cannot help the shame and embarrassment roiling in him, scalding him from within, hot pangs of discomfort shooting through his entire body.

“Take me back,” he hisses under his breath.

Other-Ares appears in front of him, one elbow on his desk, chin resting in its hand. For something as small as this? I didn’t think you were this weak.

“Just do it!”

Shrugging, it reaches forward, and Ares finds himself back in his room.

You’re going to get tired of living through these days over and over again, I’m telling you.

Ares is already out of bed and flipping through his history textbook. “That’s my problem,” he mumbles. “If I get tired, I’ll stop.”

I bet a month. Other-Ares smirks at him. One month before you stop being dramatic and learn to just deal with tiny mistakes like these.

The words sting, but it’s nothing Ares hadn’t already known. “Just go away,” he huffs, and Other-Ares disappears.

Over the next few weeks, Ares rewinds a few more times. Thrice to brush over humiliating blunders; twice to correct fumbled presentations; once to avoid bumping into his sister in the manor, who’d come home from university a couple hours before she was supposed to.

But Other-Ares was right - every time he restarts a day, he finds that he cares a little bit less. Though he remains afraid of others’ perceptions of him, the presence of a failsafe seems to dull his anxiety. So what if he holds up a lunch line fumbling for money, or if he responds awkwardly to a joke, or if his voice shakes a little in class? With just a word, none of it would have ever happened.

It gives him a strange sort of confidence, a steady warmth resting in his chest. To know his every action can be undone - why bother worrying so much?

He begins experimenting with other ways to use his power. He takes a nap on the way to a high-end restaurant, then rewinds to taste every dish on the menu. He tries out five new hairstyles, even bleaching and dyeing once. One night, exhausted and sleepy, he forgoes studying for his economics test. The next day in class, he memorizes the questions on the test, rewinds, then looks up the answers on the way to school.

“I could make a lot of money like this,” he mumbles afterward. “I’d be the best investor in the world, wouldn’t I?”

You have enough money - why bore yourself looking at charts all day?

“My parents would like it.”

For my sake and yours, impress them some other way.

Ares hesitates but lets the topic go.

That weekend, his parents request that he attend a banquet. Other-Ares gleefully critiques his outfit and posture all the way to the car. I don’t know how you’ve lasted this long. You have no idea how to act in situations like these.

“You think I’m not aware?” Ares hisses, tugging at his collar. He’s still jittery, but much less than usual. Shutting the car door in Other-Ares’s face and trying to push down his nerves, he barely manages to catch a few minutes of sleep before arriving.

“The youngest Langston!” the man at the door exclaims. “Ares, isn’t it? I spoke with your sister earlier - did you not come together?”

“Ah - um -” He forces a smile. “She decided to go ahead by herself.”

The man laughs. “Older siblings are like that. Only worrying about themselves, and forgetting about the little ones.”

The family needs to appear tightly-knit to others, his parents always warn him. “No, it’s not like that,” Ares stammers. “She - uh -”

The man puts up his hands, his brow slightly furrowed. “I joke, I joke.”

“Oh.” Ares looks away, cheeks burning. “Of course. Sorry - ah, screw it. Take me back, please.”

Blinking, the man leans in closer. “What?”

The world goes dark, and Ares wakes again in the car. Just go along with him and get inside. These formalities are tedious.

“I know, I know.” Ares walks out, and the man at the door greets him once again. “The youngest Langston! Ares, isn’t it? I spoke with your sister earlier - did you not come together?”

Ares smiles, hoping it looks more natural this time. “She decided to go ahead by herself.”

A laugh. “Older siblings are like that. Only worrying about themselves, and forgetting about the little ones.”

“Always,” Ares says, inching further into the venue. “Next time, she’d better wait for me.”

The man claps him on the back with a grin. “Well, go on inside and tell her that. Enjoy your dinner!”

Murmuring his thanks, he strides in and heads immediately towards the back table, filling a plate with food. Hopefully, nobody will pay attention to him here; he doesn’t want to deal with another rewind.

Is this what you normally do? Other-Ares appears at his side, eyeing the rest of the venue. Your sister is over there. Go say hi.

“She’s with her friends. She won’t want to be disturbed.”

Are you siblings or not? You can’t avoid her the entire evening.

“After I finish eating, then.”

He’s never liked these kinds of events. His parents want him there mostly for show - he spends most of the time as he is now, alone and in a corner. He’s supposed to talk to others, to get to know the kids his age, but he’s never bothered. Any effort on his part would be forced and fake - it’s undoubtedly the same for everyone else. He doesn't understand the way his brother and sister dance in and out of their circles, constantly managing and balancing their friendships. The very thought of it exhausts him. Are those relationships not inherently transactional?

Across the room, his sister bids goodbye to her friends and moves towards the buffet table. Other-Ares nudges him. Go talk to her.

Sighing, he complies, quickly finishing what’s left on his plate. His sister looks up, surprised, when he nears. “Ares! I didn’t know you were coming. I would’ve given you a ride.”

“No need.” He tries to smile. “How have you been?”

“Good, good! University is going well.” Eyes passing right over him, she waves at someone standing behind him. “How about you?”

A strange impulse rises within him. “Not great,” he says abruptly. “School has been hard. There’s a lot I’ve been struggling with - I wish I had someone to talk to.”

Sliding a piece of salmon onto her plate, his sister takes a few moments to respond. “Ah - did you say you weren’t doing too great? I’m sorry.” Her gaze is already moving around the room, looking for another group of people to talk with. “Listen, I have to go. Tell me if you ever want to talk, alright? I hope you feel better!” And she’s gone, leaving Ares alone once again.

Other-Ares whistles. Ouch. You two really aren’t close, are you?

“Send me back,” Ares says tonelessly, staring at his sister’s retreating figure.

Why? She barely even heard what you said.

“Just do it!”

Rolling its eyes, Other-Ares does as he says; for the third time, he awakens in the car. He pushes open the car door a little harder than he needs to, robotically greets the man at the entrance, and makes his way in, this time making a beeline for his sister.

In the middle of a conversation, she doesn’t notice he’s there until he taps her on the shoulder. Annoyance flashes across her face, but she quickly plasters on a smile. “Ares! I didn’t know you were coming. I would’ve given you a ride.”

“I’ve come to every single one of these ridiculous banquets, and you haven’t given me a ride even once,” Ares hisses. Her eyes widen; her friends mutter among themselves, staring at him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t pretend - I know you’re too busy worrying about your social image to care about your own brother.”

“What are you saying?” The shock in her voice is so satisfying. “Ares, you’re talking to your big sister! Remember your place, and remember where you are!”

“Then act like it!” he bursts out. “You’ve been at home for a week and we haven’t even talked once!”

“You say that like you haven’t been avoiding me!”

Ares laughs harshly. “Yeah, I wonder why?” Breathing heavily, he turns to Other-Areas, standing amidst the gathering crowd with a widening grin on its face. “Alright, I’m done. We can go back now.”

You’re more fun than I expected. And once again, he is back in the car.

Other-Ares taps on his shoulder from the backseat. Was that really necessary?

“Not really,” Ares says, still trying to slow his racing heartbeat. Adrenaline rushes through his veins; he feels like he could fly.

Other-Ares considers him for a few moments, then shrugs. I mean, I’m not complaining. By all means, go ahead.

The rest of the evening is as dull as usual. He pulls no more stunts and ends the day peacefully in bed, falling asleep with a slight smile on his face.

The next afternoon, sitting in front of the computer and clicking through a visual novel, he realizes something.

“The characters in this game are so shallow, aren’t they?” he says, half to himself, eyes fixed on the screen.

Yeah, video games are like that.

“Everything about them is already coded in. Their words and actions are wholly based on my choices.”

Yes. Other-Ares tilts its head. That’s how video games work.

Ares chews absentmindedly on his lip. “Then how is that any different from my life right now?”

Hmm.

“Every time I rewind, it’s as if I’m playing through a different game route. Yesterday, with the guy at the door and my sister - I knew what their reactions would be, depending on what I said.”

His gaze drifts down to his hands. “I don’t know. It makes interacting with other people feel so empty, like everything’s already scripted and predetermined.”

Go on.

“I just don’t understand why I used to be so scared,” he says quietly. “Now, everyone around me seems as simple as characters in a video game. What they think of me doesn’t matter if I can return to a save point whenever I want, right? I could do the craziest things without having to worry about any consequences.”

Sure, if you wanted to.

He skips a day of school, locking himself in his room and ignoring his nanny’s raps on the door. He mixes himself drinks from the family’s liquor shelf, getting alcohol and fruit juice all over the counter and floor. He conducts little experiments in school, trying to see how people will react to different scenarios.

In the first, he takes a girl aside after class. “I overheard your friends talking about you. They find you really annoying to be around.” It’s not even a lie. “They don’t seem like good people - I just thought you should know.” Later that day, a screaming match starts in the cafeteria, accusations and insults hurled left and right.

The second, he messes around during a lockdown drill. “I think I saw someone at the door,” he shouts in the hallway as the alarm begins blaring. “Masked and wearing all black - he might’ve been holding a gun!” Panic spreads quickly, and soon the school is plunged into chaos, half the students shoving their ways into classrooms, the other half sprinting for the exits.

The third, during a chemistry lab, he unobtrusively trips the very boy who had stuck his leg out in the cafeteria. The tray of beakers the boy had been carrying crashes to the ground, ripping gashes into his arms as he lands hard amidst the shattered glass.

“Damn,” Ares mutters under his breath, eyeing the blood beginning to drip onto the floor. “Oops.”

Other-Ares leans against the counter. You’re rewinding this, right?

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, distracted. His attention is on the faces of his classmates, their widened eyes, their hands covering their mouths in horror. His mind memorizes the way they make that tiny, hesitant step forward, knowing they should help, but how in the end they all stay back, too afraid or too repulsed or just too indifferent. “In a bit.”

One night, tipsy and sleep-deprived, he calls his parents. “Hello?” he slurs into the phone. “Mom? Dad?”

Please leave your message after the tone.

He curses and redials. “Pick up, for god’s sake! I want to talk to you. What could you be doing that’s so important?”

Please leave your message -

“Yeah, you know what?” He slams his palm into the counter, barely noticing the sting. “It was my birthday, did you know that? Nanny was the only person who remembered. You didn’t even send a text message! And you won’t pick up now!” Breathing heavily, he forces back the tears brimming in his eyes. “I’m your son, have you forgotten? I know you don’t care, but is saying a happy birthday that hard?”

Blindly, he hangs up, lowering his head into his arms and staring at the family portrait across the room. His cake sits in front of him, beautifully decorated and adorned with candles, a lone, untouched slice cut out. “Happy birthday to me,” he mumbles. “Happy birthday to me.”

He knows he shouldn’t care about things like these anymore. Normally, he doesn’t at all. The alcohol must’ve gotten to his head - he supposes it’s fine to have the occasional moment of weakness. His sticky eyelids flutter; his body grows increasingly heavy. He can feel darkness enveloping his vision, slow and enticing. He’ll just close his eyes for a few minutes, he thinks. Just a few minutes.

You’re sleeping now?

“Go away,” Ares mutters, turning his head away from Other-Ares’s figure.

Really? After sending that voicemail?

He ignores it and burrows further into his arms. A few moments later, he jerks up, heart racing. “Shit, I almost forgot.”

Other-Ares scoffs. I’m not reminding you next time.

Ares hesitates, nails digging into his palms. Maybe he isn’t as strong as he thinks he is. He really doesn’t want to relive this day, doesn’t want to deal with the false hope that will come with it. He doesn’t want to keep looking at his phone over and over, praying for a notification to pop up, wondering if maybe this year his family will remember.

And yet he cannot live a life in which he had sent a voicemail like that to his parents, so late in the night and so obviously drunk.

So, wiping away his tears and straightening his spine, he nods. “You can take me back now.”

A month later, on an evening walk in the park, a hand grabs his wrist and drags him into a thick grove of trees.

“Don’t turn around,” the voice hisses. “You look plenty rich, don’t you? Put your hands behind your head - I have a knife!”

Doing as he’s told, he casts a meaningful look at Other-Ares, leaning against the trunk of a tree in front of him. It grins, stepping towards him. Don’t want to play a little longer? What a shame.

As the robber begins to go through his pockets, taking out his phone and wallet, Other-Ares covers his eyes. Ares wakes up for the second time from his afternoon nap, rolling his shoulders and reflexively rubbing his wrist.

An evening walk doesn’t sound so attractive anymore, does it?

Ares shrugs, heading for his parent’s room. Sliding open a drawer, he retrieves a stun gun, examining it and turning it around in his hand. “Maybe I’ll try using this.”

You could just avoid the park.

Ares laughs. “I thought you liked fun things. Where’s the fun in that?”

That night, he walks the same path through the park, stun gun held firmly in hand. Soon enough, someone grabs him, takes him into the trees. “Don’t turn around! You look plenty rich, don’t you? Put your hands behind your head - I have a knife!”

The second the robber’s hand is in his pocket, Ares turns and pushes the activated stun gun into the robber’s side. With a cry, he falls, knife clattering to the ground. Huffing and kicking him away, Ares tucks his wallet back into his pocket.

“This is actually pretty strong,” he says, admiring the stun gun. He crouches next to the robber and pokes his shuddering body. “Did you really think you could get away with robbing me?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the robber stammers, out of breath from the shock. Seeing the stark fear in his eyes, Ares feels a rush of exhilaration. He jams the stun gun into his stomach and activates it again, watching his limbs convulse as a horrifying smile grows on his face.

“You really thought you could just take my things, huh?” he repeats, thumb over the switch. “You want more?”

“No more, please no more,” the robber wheezes, curling into a ball. “I’m sorry -”

“Hey, what do you think?” He swings towards Other-Ares, baring his teeth. “In video games, bad guys like him usually get killed, right?”

Other-Ares shrugs, running its gaze over the man on the ground. Sure.

Ares flexes his fingers. “Well, if my life is just a video game? Maybe I should try it out!”

The robber begins inching away, eyes wide with panic. “Who are you talking to?” he whispers, reaching for the knife a few feet away. “You’re insane!”

The smile drops off Ares’s face instantly. Ruthlessly, he steps on the robber’s arm, snatching the knife away from his hand. “I’m not insane,” he hisses, grinding his heel into muscle. “You’re the one who tried to rob me! You deserve what’s coming - this is how it works!”

He tightens his grip on the knife and holds it over the robber, relishing in the pure terror on his face, then plunges down.

When he opens his eyes, his hands are stiff and sticky. Red soaks his shirt and spills onto the grass below him. And before him lies a torn-up body, covered in lacerations and stab wounds, barely even recognizable as human.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, trying to stand up, but a bout of lightheadedness forces him to sit back down again. “This is - this is a lot.”

Other-Ares barks a laugh. Yeah, you went a bit overboard.

Trying and failing to wipe clean his fingers, Ares shivers. “I think I’m done here,” he says faintly. “Take me back, please?”

Darkness falls. He opens his eyes once again, stretching his arms above his head, ready to push off his blankets and live through the rest of the day normally.

Instead, he feels cool night air and smells the sharp tang of blood.

“Hey, this isn’t funny,” Ares growls, turning towards Other-Ares. “Take me back.”

Darkness. He opens his eyes for the third time. His hands are still stiff and sticky.

“Seriously, take me back!” he demands. “Stop joking around!”

Other-Ares raises an eyebrow. What do you mean?

“Take me back to the afternoon! You did it last time!”

That was before you blacked out a few minutes ago.

The words take a few moments to sink in, sharp claws of horror slowly closing around his heart. “That - that didn’t count as falling asleep,” Ares says, stumbling to his feet. “I wasn’t asleep. I wasn’t asleep!”

You were unconscious.

“That doesn’t count!” He lunges towards Other-Ares; it takes a step back, eyes narrow. “Please, take me back to this afternoon. I know you can - you did it before.”

I actually can’t. You know how this works.

“Liar!” Ares shrieks, desperately trying to grab at its hands. “Take me back! Take me back! Take me back, or else I’ll -”

You’ll what? Other-Ares plucks his fingers away with a snort. Have you forgotten you have no power?

“I do! I’m the most powerful person on earth -”

Other-Ares rolls its eyes. Alright, that’s enough. We’re done.

Ares drops to the ground, hands slipping in the blood. “You can’t just leave me like this!” he begs, frantically scrabbling towards Other-Ares. “I - What will I do? Is it so hard to just take me back a couple extra hours?”

You tire me. Other-Ares wrinkles its nose and steps back. You’re pretty much over no matter what, right?

“Or just one extra hour - even just a few minutes - please, anything!”

Other-Ares nods to itself and turns around, readjusting its lapels. Well, then, this is goodbye. Good luck. With a wave of its hand, it fades into the shadows of the trees.

“Come back here!” Ares screams, stumbling after it. “Please, come back! Help me!”

He cries for its return until his throat is raw and scratchy. And yet the voice does not return; no ice-cold hand comes to cover his eyes. The moon makes its way across the sky and the sun begins to rise and still, he lies helpless in the grove, soundlessly pleading for the power he will never have again.

Beautiful morning rays stream through the trees, casting dappled light onto the two bodies collapsed in the bloodied grass. One is dead, and the other might as well be.

[dukearchive]

Fluorescent Sunset

By Oscar Nolen dim lit afterthoughts while the world sleeps. volts pulse visions when my earbuds sing. my heart goes nuclear while everybody dreams.

[dukearchive]

Food Lion Fantasy

By Oscar Nolen Next in line for grocery monotony, lost between express lanes 1 and 2… frigid body prison and someone else’s air repeat grocery madness for the hopeless self-aware existential crisis around our empty human fate so let me die alone with my box of frosted flakes

[dukearchive]

not a eulogy, just an apology

By Oscar Nolen

ninety years a dreamer, for early April blooms, sunset beaches, four-leaf clovers, and daylight savings June.

endless scarlet spirits, deserving so much more. bankrupt summers, healthcare bummers, our endless mortgage war.

i told myself id save you, but i burned the time away. vicious bankers, sleepless hours, until you wasted grey.

im sorry momma

[dukearchive]

January Comes

By Jocelyn Chin from the name Janus: the two faced god of beginnings and time, of doorways, passages, and the space in between one year and the next, one fleeting moment and endings. I study this god’s two chins, two lips, two noses, four eyes, watery, unblinking — and it feels as if I am gazing into a cracking mirror.

[dukearchive]

The Marionettist

By Helen Liu

She approaches you one night with hopeful arms, tentative steps, tired eyes that still glimmer with untainted innocence. Notice how she shivers slightly, how something about the way she holds herself betrays her loneliness, her want. You smile back, allow her to throw herself into your arms, stretch your fingertips over her back.

How lovely.

Taking her cold hand, you pull her inside. Whispering reassurances, you sit her in front of your crackling fireplace, bundle her in fluffy blankets, wrap woolen scarves around her neck until her shivering gives way to drooping eyelids and soft sighs. A cup of hot cocoa is offered, followed by a tray of cookies, butter still bubbling at their edges. Chocolate dots the corner of her lip as she falls asleep; with a careful thumb, you smear it away.

You make sure she wakes to the soothing smell of coffee, a healthy flush to her cheeks and eyes alight. You murmur a good morning, tell her she may go if she must but she’s welcome to stay as long as she wants. It’s still snowing outside; after a period of waffling, she decides to stay.

Of course, you say, and unlock her door.

Later that day, as you two eat dinner, you tell her of your passion for dance. Its beauty, its elegance, your satisfaction when every movement falls in time with the beat. How you used to dance everyday, but nowadays you no longer have the energy.

Eagerly, she says she dances too, says she loves it just as much as you do. You put on music and she becomes a work of art, fluid yet sharp, timid yet daring, emotion in every line of her body. When she’s done, you clap appreciatively, saying she’s the best you’ve ever seen. Adamantly, she denies it; then, as if unsure if it’s her place to ask, requests to see you dance.

You say you’re tired, that you’ll show her someday. That you still lack the motivation, but her performance did inspire you - just a little bit. With a smile, you bid her good night, fully aware of the determined set of her jaw as you leave.

It continues to snow. She asks if she can help with the cooking or the cleaning; you say she doesn’t need to worry about any of that. She borrows some art supplies, says she wants to learn to paint, and soon depictions of vague wintry landscapes are scattered across the floor of her room.

And more than ever, she dances. Mostly on her own in your dance studio, borrowing your records and spending hours in front of the mirrors, but every night in the lounge, she dances for you. She says she wants to help you dance again, that it’s the least she can do for you after everything you’ve done for her. Smiling, you indulge her.

At breakfast one day, you mention there’s a dance - a concept, really - you’ve wanted to choreograph since you were young. And at her insistence, you reveal that you have a fascination with marionettes. That you’re intrigued by the idea of being able to dance for eternity, and that you want nothing more than to translate that idea into movement and music.

She absorbs the information with a thoughtful hum, a slight scrunch of her brow. A few minutes later, she stands and offers to try to make your concept come to life. You widen your eyes, lean forward, ask her if she’s being serious. She nods, laughing, then hopefully requests that you join her in dance if her performance is to your satisfaction. You smile and thank her profusely.

Almost immediately, you stop seeing her around the house as often as you used to. She no longer peeks around in the pantry, no longer spends hours exploring your seemingly endless closets. Even her painting begins to slow, her brushes and canvases untouched for days at a time. Instead, she works day and night in front of your mirrors, arching her back and maneuvering her arms, stepping carefully side to side. She never notices you watching from around the corner, your face impassive, your eyes blank.

She’s so caught up in her practice, she forgets to dance for you.

After a few empty nights, you knock sharply on the door of the studio, calling her name with the slightest edge to your voice. The music stops, and a few moments later she pulls open the door, a sheen of sweat on her forehead and her breaths coming in pants. Excitedly, she starts to say she’s been making progress, but you cut her off, questioning why she’s been avoiding you.

She tilts her head, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. Hesitantly, she says she’s not avoiding you, that she’s just been practicing the marionette dance and that it might be a while until she’s ready to show you, but you cut her off again. Never mind, you snap. With a heavy sigh, you turn and leave.

As you expect, she waits in the lounge the next night, dark circles under her eyes. When she sees you walk in, she says that she wants to show you what she’s come up with so far. Smiling, you settle in the chair before her and motion for her to begin.

Her movements are precise, calculated. Her steps are intricate and her arms sweep the air, her body imitating the slight jerks of a marionette. You can almost visualize the strings that dangle from her back, her feet, the top of her head, and a smile tugs at the corners of your lips. You remain expressionless.

And when the music stops, you allow the silence to drag, to weigh heavily on her shoulders and scrape painfully against her ears. The triumphant grin on her face grows strained; her arms begin to tremble where she’s holding her finishing pose. Finally, she can bear it no longer, and she turns to you, arms falling to her sides. Was it good, she whispers.

It’s not what you’d hoped, you say eventually. It should be more effortless - more free. Voice tight, eyes downcast, she says she’ll do better.

The next night, she dances again, showcasing the changes she’s made. This time, you clap halfheartedly and tell her she displays too much emotion, that it doesn’t befit a marionette. It’s okay, though, you say with a smile; it’ll take practice. But as you leave, just loud enough for her to hear, you mutter to yourself that you expected more.

It becomes a routine. Every night, she dances before you; every night, there’s something you disapprove of. Gradually, you allow your patience to slip; gradually, she loses herself in desperation. She knows your disappointment is inevitable, yet still seeks your commendation. She wants you to smile, but - for a reason she can’t name - the sight of it sometimes sends shivers down her spine.

And so she withdraws into herself. In a daze, she forgets her meals, forgoes her showers, wears the same clothes for days on end. She reimmerses herself in her paints. But no longer does her art depict pristine swathes of snow and clouds, dotted with periwinkles and siennas; now, she uses darker, duller tones, smears them almost wildly across the canvas.

Still, she dances, accepting and adjusting to every suggestion you make. And when your thinly veiled criticism finally becomes naked abuse, she doesn’t realize.

It’s still snowing, and the temperature in the house drops. Her muscles ache; she tires easily. She develops a cough that doesn’t go away. She misses a night of dancing; not finding her in her room, you look for her in the studio. Curled against the mirror, eyes moving restlessly under her eyelids, she sleeps.

The next night, she enters the lounge with a meek apology. You smile; she shivers, avoids your gaze. That night, her movements are clumsy, uncoordinated. She trips over herself more than once, biting back a cry when her hip knocks into the corner of the table. Tears nipping at her eyes, she finishes, body bent over in a bout of hacking coughs.

You sigh and stand, not looking at her. You tell her that after all you’ve done for her, the least she could do is deliver you an acceptable dance. She must not appreciate you, you muse sadly. She must not care about you.

A sharp intake of breath, a hurried shake of her head. No, no, she repeats frantically. She promises she’ll perfect the dance, swears on her life that she cares. She wants to dance with you, she says, looking up with tears running down her cheeks. You ignore her and walk away, turning to hide your mocking smile.

After all, a master does not dance with their marionette.

That night, she sobs into her pillow, clings to her blanket like it’s her only lifeline as gasping breaths shudder in and out of her still-weak lungs. The wind outside howls; her body aches with a horrible cold that doesn’t disappear no matter how tightly she pulls at her covers.

Exhausted, staring at the neverending storm of pale grey outside her window, she falls into a trance. She hears the flapping of bird wings, the rustle of tender leaves; she smells the intoxicating earthiness of spring rain, the cloying sweetness of budding flowers. She tastes salt and dreams of the ocean.

Then, an hour before sunrise, she stumbles to her paints as if possessed. She grabs at random colors, takes a brush and dashes it across one of her first paintings. She works with fervor, mind and vision foggy, biting at her lip until it bleeds.

And when the storm dies and sunlight finally illuminates her canvas, she stops, transfixed. Stares at the field of spring green, canary yellow, and wistful pink that emerges from what used to be icy blue, snowy white.

A strange weight lifts off her chest, and an inexplicable relief floods her mind.

Later, she comes down for breakfast, the first time in a while. You smile at her; she blinks, then catches herself and murmurs a hello. She eats quickly, then leaves for the studio.

Puzzled, you go to her room, find her newest painting lying near the foot of her bed. Anger curls in your stomach; a bitter taste fills your mouth. You seize the canvas, stride downstairs, and cast it into the hungry fireplace. With a twisted satisfaction, you watch the colors crumble into ash.

A few more days pass, and with a twinge of uncertainty, you realize something about her has changed. She eats regularly now, the color returning to her cheeks and her cough finally abating. She spends more time in her room and less in the studio. She doesn’t seek you out, nor does she avoid you, but you catch her staring at you more than once, her face unreadable.

Her nightly dancing, too, is different. Her movements are more reserved, yet she dares to look you in the eye when you give her your usual critique. She responds with careless nods, distracted agreements, doesn’t flinch no matter how dangerously you smile. One night, she doesn’t dance at all, not answering even when you bang on her locked door. And for the first time in years, you feel cold panic constricting your throat.

The next morning, her door is left ajar. You rush in only to discover more paintings, stacked on top of her dressers and balanced against the walls. Each is brighter than the last, glorious and taunting. Hands clenched into fists, frenzied, you burn them all. You don’t notice her watching from around the corner, lips curled and eyes triumphant.

That night in the lounge, she tells you she’s done.

You rise from your chair, your fingers digging into the armrests, a whirlwind of unfamiliar emotion building inside you. Slowly, you dare her to repeat herself.

She’s done, she says. Her breathing is steady and her feet are set underneath her and streaks of paint color her hair. Her arms are tense with anticipation; she steps forward with purpose. You flick your eyes to hers and realize that her innocence has shattered into brilliant shards of furious calm, disgusted acceptance, defiant peace.

She holds out a hand flecked with paint, bares her teeth, and invites you to dance.

And you try to pull at her strings, but find only their frayed remains.

She spits at your feet. Not looking back once, she opens the door she’d been pulled through so many nights ago and stalks back into the snow. Frozen, you stare after her.

She leaves behind a room of upended paint jars, color splattered all over the bed, the walls, the dressers. She leaves behind a studio of smashed mirrors, its floor covered in gleaming fragments of glass.

The storm balks at her presence; the sunlight welcomes her return. And with every step she takes, green blooms from her feet.